


Two of Cups

by MonkeyBard



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Costumes, Disguise, Drinking, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonkeyBard/pseuds/MonkeyBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A successful case is cause for celebration--and scotch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two of Cups

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/gifts).



> Thanks to **methylviolet10b** for the speedy beta!

I have rarely witnessed my friend Sherlock Holmes in his cups. While we are neither of us blue-ribbon men, we did not often have cause, nor indeed funds in our more youthful days to drink to excess. On top of which, Holmes was so often keen to remain focussed that such behaviour was far from his mind. More likely, when not slave to that fiend which I so despised, he would fill himself with cases or music. Nowadays it is with bees.  
  
But there is an exception to every rule and this time was one such. Perhaps it was the excitement with which the case was concluded that led to his unusual jocundity. Possibly his delight with his mastery of the disguise needed to bring about the case's successful conclusion caused his great good humour. Maybe his relief in my own small success at subterfuge--enough to keep me from certain injury--played a part in his light-hearted manner. Most likely it was a combination of all of these, joined with the fact that he'd made the local police look quite foolish in the process of settling the case.  
  
All causes aside, it is a night that by all rights neither of us should remember clearly due to the copious amounts of fine Scotch whisky we consumed. Yet it is a night that I have never forgotten, nor I believe has my dear Holmes.  
  
The case had taken us out of London and to the coast, and that is all that need be said of our location as I shall not compromise the details of the case even here in my private diary. We remained in our respective disguises while on our way back to our temporary lodging in that seaside village. I had no thought of stopping along our way, but Holmes claimed great hunger now that the case was newly concluded, and insisted upon stopping for supper. Generally I do not argue when Holmes requests a meal, but that evening I was dubious--primarily at his choice of dining establishments.  
  
"You wish to dine there, looking like that?" I eyed him doubtfully, because while his disguise was excellent, I wasn't at all certain it was appropriate garb for the rustic public house that he indicated.  
  
"There are ladies within, Watson. My presence shan't disrupt the place." Upon which, he settled the hem of his walking skirt about his ankles, briefly adjusted his wig and hat, and allowed me to open the door for him.  
  
In we went, and true to his prediction, the arrival of "a comfortably married couple on a walking holiday" turned not a head. This held true as our meal progressed. Holmes ordered a lady-like half-pint of the local beer, to my properly manly pint. When those were consumed, we ordered a second round. It was Holmes's quiet suggestion to purchase a bottle of whisky to take with us to our hotel, his eyes sparkling with mischief and suggestion only I could see. Being relaxed as I was from a hearty meal, good beer, and a successful case, I made no objection, and the barkeeper was happy for the additional sale. We took the bottle and departed, walking hand-in-hand to the quaint hostel where we were staying.  
  
Our cover in the village had been established the moment we had arrived two days before. As such, Dr. and Mrs. A-- were a familiar sight to the desk clerk who handed over our room key and bid us a good evening before we made our way upstairs. And if the clerk noticed the bottle cleverly hidden in the folds of my companion's skirt, he did not comment on it.  
  
Anticipation had grown in me since Holmes's sly looks at the pub, and by the time we reached our room and locked the door behind us, I held a great eagerness for what lay below his disguising skirts. Yet it was he who acted first, pressing me back against the door and claiming my mouth with his own. The kiss was long, passionate, and hungry. It was as if he had decided upon me for his pudding, and I did not protest except to say, when given a moment to breathe, "Do remove that hat and wig, my dear man. The clothing I can tolerate, but not those."  
  
He laughed and did as I requested, removing his ladies' overcoat too. "Is this better?"  
  
"Immeasurably." I initiated the next embrace, rewarding him for his prompt compliance to my request.  
  
I shucked off my own overcoat and jacket, and Holmes reached for the buttons of my waistcoat to assist in my swift disrobing. Before long, I was down to my under-things while he was still dressed as a respectable wife--from the neck down. My cock, which had softened slightly in the distraction of undressing, hardened again at the sight of him. The juxtaposition of that hawkish face I so adored above the artificial curves of a lady was shockingly alluring.  
  
"I find the idea of undressing you unexpectedly thrilling," I admitted.  
  
He laughed again. "Let us take our time about it, in that case." He reclaimed the whisky bottle from the dressing table where he'd set it, while I collected the two drinking glasses from the nightstand. He splashed a hearty measure of the burnished gold liquid into each glass and we toasted several times. To the successful end of the case. To the amenable company we had in each other. To the disguise that allowed us this opportunity. To the night that was falling outside the curtained windows, the fabric the colour of a green baize gaming table. Lightheaded with alcohol and desire, my thoughts fell upon the French word "baise" and giggled at the appropriateness of it. (Indeed, I recall a great many such expressions of mirth that night, for which I believe the whisky was primarily responsible.)  
  
Holmes refilled our glasses and we toasted yet again. Then he set aside both drinks and ran one long-fingered hand along the skin of my arm. I shook with anticipation at his touch.  
  
"Shall we begin this 'thrilling' activity of undressing while you still have the facility and dexterity to unlace me?" he asked in a mocking tone that for once I did not mind.  
  
"Not yet." This time it was I who pressed him back until he was up against the dressing table. I reached beneath his long skirt and hiked it up past his knees. His thigh was warm against my chilled hand and he started at my touch. "Too cold?" I asked softly as I kissed his neck below his ear.  
  
"No."  
  
He wore no drawers beneath his petticoat, only stockings and sturdy boots. My hand caressed his inner thigh and he sighed. Encouraged, although I hardly needed it, I sent my hand higher until I cupped his sac in my palm and traced a neatly trimmed fingernail back and forth along his perineum. This elicited more sounds of contentment from my Holmes and I smiled against his neck and nipped gently with my teeth.  
  
Searching with my other hand beneath all that fabric, I grasped his hard member and began a slow, rhythmic stroking. Holmes said no word beyond an occasional direction, which I promptly took. I slid my thumb over the wet tip of his prick, slicking it slightly.  
  
Unable to resist the temptation of him, I pushed his heavy skirts all the way up to his waist, like a scarlet woman in some dockside alleyway, and knelt before him. I brushed my moustache against his sensitive skin and felt him shiver at the sensation it caused. I spent a little time in this teasing endeavour until he reached a hand down and insistently tugged my head toward his erection. It was the work of a moment to pull his shaft into my mouth and lave it copiously, Holmes's encouragements ever in my ears.  
  
His hand on the back of my head gripped strongly, long fingers twisting in my hair. He tugged at my head and thrust into my mouth at the same time, something that once upon a time had confused me, but which I had since learned to interpret. Thus, I pulled back until only the crown of his cock was between my lips and then dove down upon him again, taking him in as deeply as my own physiology allowed. I repeated the sequence with increasing speed, all the while aware of every quiver and quake of Holmes's lean body. Finally, I felt him reach the verge, and a heartbeat later his nectar filled my mouth. I love the taste of him, and have loved it ever since the first time he found his release this way with me. I swallowed and milked him until he was spent and soft, then took the liberty of wiping my face on his petticoat--an action that made him laugh heartily.  
  
He helped me to my feet, both my bad leg and my hazy head needing his assistance to achieve balance, and we wrapped ourselves in one another's arms. He pressed kisses to my lips and I welcomed them. When his tongue sought entry, I opened for him and he delved deep.  
  
"You taste of whisky and me," he murmured in my ear as we came up for breath.  
  
"That is not surprising."  
  
He chuckled. "Another drink?"  
  
My cock ached for release and I pressed hard against him. "Not just yet," I replied.  
  
"I'm glad. I, too, would rather continue our present pursuits." His grey eyes appeared as pale as quartz in the light of the moon glowing through the curtains. He began to undo the buttons of his blouse.  
  
I brushed his hands away and saw to the matter of undressing him myself. Blouse, corset, skirt, petticoat, chemise, boots, stockings. "I no longer see the allure of this costuming, Holmes," I complained, my erection like a wilful child demanding attention. "There are too damned many pieces!" He only laughed again, a sound that I have ever loved to hear, and it was no different upon that occasion despite my frustrations.  
  
At last he was divested of his garb and in moments I had joined him in that natural state. Holmes grasped my hardness and stroked once, twice, thrice, hard and fast. I put a hand over his to stop him. "Not yet. I want to be inside you."  
  
He kissed me ardently on the mouth. "I think a variation my previous position, don't you agree?" He turned his back to me and placed both his hands upon the dressing table, spreading his feet and leaning forward. In zoological circles, it is called "presenting", and like the beasts we humans are, it had the common effect upon me. Then he smiled at me in the mirror that hung over the table, and my cock would no longer be denied.  
  
I recovered the bottle of lubricating ointment I had brought in hopes of just this occasion, and slicked my ever-insistent cock with the unguent. My fingers slippery, I used one and then two to prepare Holmes for my entry. I positioned my tip at his hole, wrapped one arm around his torso, pulling him to my chest, and began to press inside. He drew a quick, sharp breath and then relaxed into my embrace, pushing his arse back against me. I continued to press in until I was seated fully within him.  
  
I watched his face and my own in the reflection. I had never seen us that way before and it felt clandestine, scandalous, and deeply erotic. I drew back and thrust into him again and again, over and over. The table shook under our weight and my assault upon Holmes's hole, but the mirror on the wall barely quivered. My heart beat raced and my mind was a swirling haze of desire and whisky fumes. My pace increased and I neared my climax. Holmes's face in the mirror was a vision of erotic pleasure that spurred me over the edge of the precipice. I fell hard, filling his tight warmth with my own heat and wetness.  
  
Moments passed as we stood there, I draped over his back, head resting on his shoulder, until I returned to sense enough to stand straight, lifting my weight from him and letting my spent member slip from its sheath.  
  
We cleaned up as much as we could be bothered and fell together under the covers of the cosy bed. As Holmes nestled in behind me and wrapped me in his arms, he murmured, "We must try that again at home. It would only take a slight adjustment to the height of the mirror over my own dressing table."  
  
"Yes," I agreed through a yawn. "But next time, let it be without all those excessive ladies' garments to get through first, please."  
  
I felt his soft chuckle as I drifted off to sleep.  
  
Upon our return to Baker Street the next day, the "slight adjustment" was soon complete, and we made good use of it over our remaining years there.


End file.
